Quantum Entanglement
by JillianWatson1058
Summary: Moriarty is dead. Sherlock has fallen. But the criminal network is still alive and thriving. The detective and doctor work together- even though one doesn't know the other is alive, and one doesn't know where the other is- to take it down. No slash. Includes appearances from most major characters.
1. Departure

_Quantum Entanglement: When particles such as photons or electrons interact and then become separated, but are linked in such a way that they make the exact same movements, no matter how far apart they become._

Departure

_CRACK._

Molly's eyes flew open as her room was bleached in white light. Then, it was gone as quickly as it had come. In the stillness, she could hear raindrops falling onto the roof and splashing on the pavement far below. Sighing in the dark, she turned over to stare out the foggy window. There was almost no one moving on the streets, and she could just make out a pinpoint of light that was a faraway streetlamp. A distant rumble of thunder came again, and she pulled the cool sheets tighter around herself.

_Thunk._

What was that? It definitely wasn't thunder, too close for that. It sounded like someone was moving around in her living room. It was probably Sherlock, she realized, as it was his turn to sleep on the old sofa. Still, it would be disastrous if someone and broken in and seen the allegedly dead detective.

Her feet hit the cold floor, and she crossed her arms tightly. Padding across her bedroom as quietly as she could, she inched open her door. Then flung it open.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

Clothing was strewn around the living room, interspersed with maps covered in highlighter and sharpie. In the middle of the maelstrom was the detective himself, shoving everything haphazardly into a ratty black suitcase. "What does it look like?"

"You're leaving," she stated quietly.

"Yes." He continued packing.

"Were you planning on waking me up, or were you just going to… leave without saying goodbye?"

"I would have left a note." At her silence, he looked up, searching her face. "That was apparently the wrong answer. Why?"

Man, his eyes were intense. "Um, because you're my f-friend, and-"

"Why am I your friend, Molly?" For once, the detective looked completely lost.

"S-sorry, what?"

"I've insulted you and used you and hurt you, and yet you risked your safety to help me fake my death. _Why?_" He folded up a map and stuck it in the suitcase's front pocket.

Because he was _Sherlock. _Were these impossible questions going to become a habit now that Sherlock couldn't contact John, his moral compass? "Because, even though you can be… harsh… sometimes… well, a lot of the time… I know you have a good heart. Even though you try to hide it. You cared enough to die for your friends. Well, I mean, I know you didn't actually die, but it looked like you did."

"I have a _good heart?_" His nose wrinkled in confusion.

Ignoring this (with great difficulty), Molly continued, "And because you're my f-friend, I wanted to see you one… l-last time, because I probably won't see you again for a while."

"Molly," Sherlock stood and looked at her solemnly, "you should know that it might not just be a while. There's a large chance that I won't be coming back."

The pathologist bit her lip. "I know," she said quietly. Looking at him, she realized this could possibly be her last chance. She took a deep breath. Then, she ran forward, throwing her arms around the detective.

Well. Sherlock was certainly not expecting that. However, the sensation of being hugged was not altogether unpleasant. He looked down at the pathologist, wondering what John would have done in this situation. Sentiment was always more of his area. After several seconds, he opted for awkwardly patting her on the back.

His touch seemed to startle Molly back to herself. She jerked back, blushing fiercely. "I-I'm so sorry. That was s-stupid; I shouldn't have-"

"Molly." He mercifully cut her off. "It's… fine."

He was being oddly understanding. "I-I don't know what got into me."

"Do stop apologizing, Molly. It's unbecoming."

_There _was the Sherlock she was used to. "S-sorry. No, no, I didn't mean-"

"Molly. Be quiet."

After looking at each other in awkward silence for a couple seconds, Molly bit back her embarrassment. "You _are_ wrong, you know."

The detective's eyebrows shot up. "I'm _wrong_? About _what_?"

"You _are _going to come back."

"Molly, Moriarty's network is vast and-"

"Fallible." At the feeling of finality of the moment, she felt a wave of courage coursing through her. "He's not perfect, Sherlock. He's dead, isn't he?"

Sherlock's face broke into a grin. "And I'm not, correct?"

Molly smiled back. "But they don't know that, so you've got the… element of surprise."

"And the element of surprise is _far_ superior to thousands of enemy agents."

"Well, at l-least it's more than nothing."

They stood in awkward silence for several seconds. Then the detective spoke again. "Thank you, Molly. For… everything."

Her blush got even deeper. "It was my pleasure."

"How could that have _possibly_ been considered enjoyable?"

"It w-wasn't that it was _fun_, but it was the fact that I could…" her blush deepened, "help… you."

Sherlock gave her the strangest look. She couldn't quite figure out what it meant.

"Well, r-regardless, my offer still stands. If you need anything at all, just ask."

"I will. Thank you." He picked up the fully-packed suitcase and slung on an unfamiliar windbreaker, as the belstaff was too recognizable. They both heard a clap of thunder in the distance. "I may contact you, but don't try to contact me. It would be both unsafe and nearly impossible. And Molly, be on your guard. Don't bring up the subject of my death; don't be foolish and try to clear my name; don't even bring up the subject of me at all."

"And lock myself in my flat and don't talk to strangers?" Molly crossed her arms, smiling shyly. "I'll be fine, Sherlock. They don't even know about me."

"Keep it that way."

"It shouldn't be a problem; I don't-"

"You _do _count, Molly."

The pathologist tried in vain to stop the smile spreading across her face. "I was _going_ to say that I don't meet many people down in the morgue."

"What about Jim from IT?"

And back came the blush. "He was an exception. It won't happen again."

The detective turned to go once more.

"Oh, and Sh-sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. Again. For s-saying that I count."

"It's not a compliment, simply a fact. You're trustworthy and reliable, and you saved my life."

"It w-was still nice of you to say it." Knowing that she shouldn't keep him any longer, she took a deep breath. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock. But whatever happens, just remember that Jim didn't win."

"I know," he smirked. "As you said, I'm still alive, aren't I?" As he pushed open the door and walked into the darkened hallway, she felt like part of her had just left with him. The wooden door shut with a soft _click._

And then she was alone again. The half-smile slid off her face, and unhindered tears slid down her cheeks, mirroring the rain sliding down her window. He was gone.

JWJWJW

Sherlock's half-smile slid off his face as soon as he closed her door. Running quickly and silently down the narrow stairwell, he looked around nervously. Exits: two. One at the top of the staircase and one at the bottom. Visibility: low. Current weapons state: unarmed. Conclusion: move quickly. He shouldered open the bottom door and pulled his hood over his head, striding outside. Rain splashed down around him, and he squinted, trying to spot a cab in the downpour. There!

"Taxi!" As the black cab slowed, Sherlock looked at the driver, verified that, as far as he could tell, he wasn't a threat, and climbed in.

"Where to, sir?"

"The Brighton Public Library." The weapons situation would have to wait. He had a certain stop to make first.

JWJWJW

**My friend Sophia suggested that I do a hiatus fic, so here you are! These chapters will alternate between being Sherlock-centric and John-centric. At least, that's the plan so far. I hope you enjoyed chapter one. Reviews/follows/favs are greatly appreciated.**

**For those of you waiting for The Texting Men, I apologize. I've been working on this story lately, since it won't seem to leave me alone, and I want to get it done before series 3 airs. (I know I have a bunch of time for that, but I'm not sure how many chapters this is going to be.)**

**~JillianWatson1058**


	2. Just Killing Time

Just Killing Time

"_This phone call, it's my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"_

"_Leave a note when?"_

"_Goodbye, John."_

_He saw the phone tossed carelessly to the side, saw the arms spread in a twisted imitation of wings, saw his friend step off the roof. No, this wasn't happening. _

"_No, no, She-SHERLOCK!"_

_It was too late. And he was running as fast as he could, but Sherlock was falling faster. A thought struck him: What would he do if he got there, anyway? It's not as if he could catch his fallen friend, the man who had fallen in popularity, fallen in fame, fallen from a roof. It didn't matter. John just had to be there._

_But he couldn't get there in time._

_He was too slow._

_There was nothing to obstruct John's view as his best friend plummeted to the pavement._

_CRACK._

John's eyes flew open to the bright flash of lightning. He sprang to a sitting position, panting, like he had almost every night for the past few weeks. He had a fleeting memory of having nightmares as a child, waking up screaming in the middle of the night. His mother would always run into his room, rubbing his back and telling him not to worry. "It was all a dream, Johnny," she would say. "It wasn't real, you're safe now."

But this wasn't just a dream. And it wasn't _his_ safety that was the problem. Looking at his alarm clock, he saw that it was almost 3:00 in the morning. Lying back down, he tried to slow his breathing down. His nightmares were always so vivid, so real. Well, all except for the part about the unobstructed view. He had never seen his friend land. At least he could be thankful for small mercies like that.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Knowing that he wouldn't be going back to sleep that night, he got up to make himself a cuppa. Creaking down the old stairs, he reached the door to their- no, his- sitting room. Apprehension clutched in his chest, but he pushed the door open anyway. All was dark and quiet, with only the faint sound of a car splashing through a puddle breaking the silence. The yellowish light from a streetlamp fell on his friend's chair, wavering through the rain running down the windowpane. It felt wrong.

As his eyes fixed on the chair (_his _chair), the now-familiar doubts crept in. Could he have done something to change this? What if he had just said something different? Told Sherlock that he believed in him? No, he reprimanded himself, he had already said that to Sherlock the night of his "arrest." But maybe he just needed to hear it one more time…?

John could almost hear the detective's reply to that. _"Shut up, John. Don't be an idiot. Why would it matter to me what the general populace thinks? And you already told me that you didn't believe Moriarty's lies, so why would I possibly need to hear it again?"_

"Because you're an idiot?" the doctor smiled.

"_No, _you're _an idiot if you're blaming yourself for my decision."_

John suddenly realized that he was speaking to an empty chair. "Stop talking to yourself, John." He turned sharply and walked to the kitchen, which was disgustingly clean. Filling the kettle and plugging it in, he settled back to wait.

Another car drove by far below.

The doctor's mind began to wander. It wasn't his fault that Sherlock had jum- died. It wasn't his fault. It was Jim Moriarty's. Where _was_ Jim Moriarty now? John hadn't heard anything about him or "Rich Brook" since Sherlock's untimely death. Although, if Moriarty wanted to keep up the whole "Sherlock is a fake" façade, the doctor assumed he would be lying pretty low for a while.

A low rumble of thunder broke the silence temporarily.

John rarely hated anyone. Often, he would dislike people, but very rarely would wish them major harm. Not Moriarty. He _hated _him. With a passion. For someone to think of killing as a game, and tear apart someone's reputation, make them an outcast and blame them for crimes they didn't do, all for _fun._ That man. Was evil.

The kettle started to whistle, starting out softly and getting progressively louder. Pouring himself a cuppa, John held his teacup in his hands, staring pensively into its murky waters.

And what was John doing to stop him? Nothing. He was just killing time until he went back to work at the surgery. But Moriarty and his network were still at large. There was no one going after Moriarty now that Sherlock was gone. The police were under the impression that Sherlock had committed all those crimes, so they were satisfied with the present outcome. _Satisfied._ With an innocent man's death? With letting a mass murderer go free? What kind of messed up world did they live in, anyway?

A world where his best friend was someone who found death and serial killers to be more fun than Christmas.

But, that part wasn't _so_ bad.

He knew what he had to do. In order to clear Sherlock's name and rid the world of the evil that was Jim Moriarty, he had to take down Moriarty's network. The consulting criminal was a man, after all. He must've made some mistakes. It would be a bit like going back to the battlefield, the battlefield that his time with Sherlock had mirrored so well. Now he just had to find the enemy. It would be difficult, and it would be dangerous, but John held to the hope that it was possible.

Now, where could he start?


	3. Mission Diogenes

Mission: Diogenes

It took almost no time to pick the lock of the old public library. Not a soul was in sight. Perfect. Soundlessly walking between unlit rows of dusty volumes, Sherlock made his way to the darkened stairwell that led to the basement. Visibility: Low. Ability to be seen: Also low. Exits: Two. Current weapons state: Regrettably unarmed. Conclusion: Keep an eye out.

The stairs creaked and his shadow followed loyally behind him on the dusty staircase. Brushing a cobweb out of the way, the detective pushed open the door at the bottom. Blackness greeted him, making it hard to tell what was in the room. If he had done his research correctly, this should be the public records room. His gloved hand slid along the wall, searching for a light switch. There!

He rifled through folder after folder and binder after binder, shaking his head more vigorously at every unsatisfactory find. Finally, he snatched up a faded file, chuckling. "Yes, that will do nicely."

JWJWJW

Back on the street, the rain was beginning to let up. This, however, went unnoticed by the man who was hurriedly emptying an old file and stuffing the contents into his windbreaker. Tossing the emptied folder into a rubbish bin, he began to search the street for a ride.

"Taxi!"

A black cab slid up to the curb.

"The Diogenes Club," Sherlock instructed, without even waiting for the cabbie to ask. He searched the man's face, ascertained that he wasn't a threat, and dragged his bags into the vehicle.

JWJWJW

"This will be fine, thank you." The estranged detective lugged his bags over his shoulder, climbing out of the cab into the day that the sun had finally risen on. He smiled, an evil glint lighting up his eyes. He passed several pounds through the window, and the cab silently picked up speed as it drove away. Looking around, Sherlock spotted the woman he wanted to see. She was sitting on the street corner, hunched in her ragged coat, trying her best to keep out of the persistent wind.

"Ms. Hunter?"

The ragged woman smiled. "You know you can jus' call me Violet, Mr. 'olmes. Got any spare change?"

"It just so happens I do." Digging out his wallet, he took out several bills. "This change comes with instructions, though."

"Spill it."

"You'll need to get changed. Your disguise is in this duffle."

Her smile grew wider.

"You'll need to recruit some friends. Will that be an issue?"

"Not at all. You're not the only one's got friends, Mr. 'olmes. 'ow many will y' need, y'think?"

"At least two, besides you."

"Done."

"Find them, get them changed, as well, and meet me at the Diogenes Club in half an hour. I'll give you further instructions then."

JWJWJW

The quiet sitting room of the Diogenes Club was disturbed when the sharp sound of a knocker rapped against the front door. Several well-dressed men looked up in annoyance.

"Excuse me," a lady, clearly employed by the post (you could tell by her uniform), walked into the deathly silent room.

Several more men looked up, angry frowns set on their faces.

"I 'ave a package for one… Mr. Whitman?"

One of the older statesmen pushed a panic button on the wall with his cane, looking with horror at the loud newcomer.

"Is. There." The woman enunciated very loudly, as if to a group of deaf men, "A. Mr. Whitman. 'ere."

"What's goin' on 'ere?" Two men dressed in white scrubs entered the room, confronting the offending woman. Quite loudly.

"I was _trying_," she raised her voice, "to deliver a _package_. But none of these men seem to be able to hear me!"

"Can't you see the sign?" One of the two men, whose hands were surprisingly dirty, pointed at a 'No Talking' sign on the wall. He, too, raised his voice. "It says, _'No. Talking.'_"

"Yes, can't you read?" The other guard retorted.

"O' course I can read!" The lady crossed her arms, clearly offended. "I'm not stupid; I just didn't see your stupid sign!"

"Would you keep your voice _down_?" The taller of the two guards yelled.

"I will when _you_ do!" The woman yelled back.

The creak of a heavy wooden door came from the end of the room, and the shouting threesome fell quiet. Mycroft Holmes stepped out of his private room, straightening his suit angrily. "And just _what_," he enunciated the word very clearly and quietly, "is going on here?" He thought it was odd that the guard's hands were dirty.

"I," explained the postwoman, "was just trying to deliver a package."

Her accent was distinctly cockney. Interesting. "There is a mailbox in the entryway that you could leave that in. There was no need for you to come in here."

"See, that would work just fine if this was a _normal_ package. But I got _specific _instructions that this package was only supposed to be delivered to Mr. Whitman in person."

"There is no Mr. Whitman here. Perhaps you have the wrong address?"

"Nope. It says 'ere in big letters: The Diogenes Club. If there's no Mr. Whitman, maybe you'd better open it."

"Hand it here."

Ms. Hunter, who was quite enjoying her role as an annoying postwoman, handed the cardboard box to Mycroft to inspect.

It was surprisingly light for its size, but there was nothing to make him think it was a bomb. And he should know, after all. He wouldn't soon forget the summer of '92. He pulled open the flaps to reveal only one small piece of paper. He lifted it out.

"'Thank you for your assistance,'" he read. Then he really looked at the note. It smelled very faintly of woman's perfume, but the handwriting was definitely a man's. It was a man's that he used to know very well. His heart froze, and he connected the dots, just too late, between the dirt on the guard's hands, the postwoman's accent, and his office door which was, he just now noticed, not closed.

For once in his lifetime, Mycroft Holmes ran.

There was no one in the office, but the cabinet behind his desk was wide open. And empty. Now, this was no ordinary cabinet. Underneath the wooden exterior, it was reinforced with solid steel and had a state-of-the-art lock (state-of-the-art was relative when it came to Mycroft's suspect) to keep out unwanted intruders. And there were a lot of people Mycroft counted as unwanted in this case, seeing as this cabinet was where he kept a large stash of weapons in case of an emergency. And it was empty.

Well, not _quite_ empty. At the very bottom of the cupboard, he found another small slip of paper with the same handwriting as the first. Sherlock's handwriting.

_Make sure to pay Molly Hooper for two months' rent. Oh, and the homeless network have already evacuated the premises. Don't chase after them. I know how much you hate legwork._

At least the comment about Miss Hooper explained the scent of woman's perfume. He sighed. "He always did love to be dramatic…" An email alert popped up on his computer screen. It was from John Watson. How fitting.

_Mycroft:_

_I've been looking into Moriarty lately, and I was wondering about the fake ID he must have had in order to get those acting jobs. Perhaps you have a mole in your midst?_

_John Watson_

Interesting. Well, not the question about the fake ID. With a good enough agent, Moriarty wouldn't have needed an ID at all. However, the truly interesting part of this was that Sherlock must not have contacted John yet, since the army doctor had asked such an obvious question. He supposed this was all part of his little brother's "master plan."

_John:_

_You won't get anywhere on that line of inquiry. Try Brook's agent._

_Mycroft_

Yes, it was all very intriguing.

JWJWJW

**I just wanted to say a quick thank you for the favorites and follows. If you have any thoughts, please leave a review! :) Have a wonderful day!**


	4. Food for Thought

Food for Thought

The hunt began. After his late night/early morning coffee, John had surfed the internet, trying to find clues about Moriarty's web. Maybe there was something to discover in the very alias that Jim had made for himself. Searching through page after page of data, John checked the people who had worked in the movies that Rich Brook had starred in. Disappointingly, they seemed to check out as good, upstanding members of society. Maybe Moriarty had threatened them…?

Or maybe Jim was just that good of an actor that they would hire him. He had certainly fooled NSY. But he would have had to have a legitimate ID. So, he must have had someone in the government on his side. John wondered if Mycroft knew about it. To have all of these records of Brook's existence would have taken _ages_. Just how long had Moriarty been planning this for?

As he continued his almost fruitless search, John watched the sunrise through the window. He had to get out of the flat. He was making no progress anyway. Maybe he'd head to Speedy's for a bite to eat. At least the rain had stopped.

JWJWJW

As it was only around 6:30 in the morning, the place wasn't too packed. Of course, Speedy's was never a hugely popular restaurant. John found himself a table, which, ironically, turned out to be the same one Mycroft had once confronted him at. That had only been a little while ago, but about a completely different death. It had been Irene Adler that time, the one woman that Sherlock had counted as a worthy opponent. She had "died" once before, but, as it turned out, had only faked her death. Sighing, John put his head in his hands. If only it could have been _Sherlock_ who had faked his death.

"What can I get for you to drink, sir?" A pretty blond woman walked up to the table. She smiled brightly, but it didn't linger long before her face resumed a serious expression.

"Hm? Oh, a coffee would be great. Black, two sug- no, no, just black, if you could."

"Coming right up." The quick smile returned for just a second, and she strode away, tucking her pen into her light ponytail.

Black, two sugars. What was he thinking? He did not need to pick up coffee for his incredibly lazy genius flatmate. And he never would again.

But, sadly, he wanted to.

Pulling out his laptop, he attempted to continue the disheartening search. The blank google page taunted him, reminding John of the days when his blog remained resolutely blank. Then Sherlock had come, and his life had turned into chaos and excitement. Now, the days of blank blog pages were back.

"One coffe, black, brewed to perfection." The pretty waitress was back again, flashing one of her lightning smiles.

John looked up at her, taking the mug he was handed. "Thanks. Smells wonderful."

"It's going to taste wonderful, too. Have you thought about what you'd like to eat?"

"Um," he glanced down at the small menu, "how about the sunrise special?"

"Good choice," she scribbled down his order in shorthand on her notepad. "It's always one of my favorites for an early morning."

"Thus the 'sunrise' part?"

Her smirk lit up her face. "It's aptly named. I'll be back in a few." With that, she headed back to the kitchen.

John went back to staring at a blank search screen. Well, at least he could email Mycroft about the leak in the government that was responsible for Moriarty's faked ID. Mycroft. Another man that the army doctor vehemently disliked. He of _all people _should have known the danger of giving up details of Sherlock's childhood. Maybe he could guilt Mycroft into helping him out. It was the least the British Government could do after what happened.

He opened up his email.

_Mycroft:_

_I've been looking into Moriarty lately (you know, the man you gave your brother's life to in exchange for information), and I was wondering about the fake ID he must have had in order to get those acting jobs. Perhaps you have a mole in your midst?_

_John Watson_

Maybe that was a bit harsh. Using his better judgment, the doctor took out the scathing remarks in the parentheses. Despite the umbrella-wielding idiot's emotionless demeanor, John knew that, deep down, he cared for his brother. The one-man government just happened to show it by kidnapping Sherlock's associates and bribing them in exchange for information on his whereabouts.

Send.

And then, as it always did, Sherlock's voice came back to reprove him. _"You're asking Mycroft about a mole in his employ? He may be overweight, but he's not stupid. If there was a mole, he would've noticed straight off and the man would have never been seen or heard from again. It's more likely that Moriarty's agent was someone in his employ and was responsible for his many roles. With a good agent, not having an ID wouldn't have been an issue."_

"Really?" John muttered to himself. "You couldn't have brought that up earlier?"

"_Well, it's not as if you'd want _Mycroft's _help, anyway."_

Maybe John should be worried about these conversations with the dead detective. But, then again, they were extraordinarily helpful. Even if they never _actually _happened.

When he looked up, the doctor noticed that the blonde waitress kept looking at him, as if working up the courage to say something. Oh no. Had she seen him talking to the air?

"Yeah," he figured he'd break the awkward silence before she did. "I talk to… myself… sometimes. Please, just ignore me."

"Not a problem!" the girl's face lit up with a reassuring grin. "I talk to myself _all_ the time, especially on night shifts. Sometimes I even _argue_ with myself. Which, you know, probably isn't the most stable thing to do. But I always win my arguments."

Chuckling, John replied, "As long as you don't start _losing _your arguments, I think you're fine."

She laughed, the sound warming John up as much as his coffee had. Finally, after a few minutes of cleaning the counter, she worked up her courage. "Y-you look… familiar."

And then his heart froze again.

"You used to know him, didn't you? Sherlock Holmes, I mean."

Clenching his fist involuntarily, he said, "Yes. He was… my best friend."

"I'm sorry. I really am." And she truly sounded like it. She sounded like she truly understood his pain. "I'm Mary Morstan." She held out a delicate hand.

He shook it. "John Watson."

"He was a great man, your friend."

"You don't believe the papers, then?"

She shook her head. "Of course not. Usually, they're little more than fairytales, anyway. I knew about Mr. Holmes before he was famous. I read his blog. And your blog, too, of course."

"_What is this romanticized prose?" _He could still see Sherlock's disgusted face. _"No, it's not even_ prose;_ it's rubbish!"_

"_Rubbish that you can't stop reading," _John had retorted.

"Did you… enjoy it?" he asked.

"Loved it." She paused. "Especially that one about the faked painting. It was so exciting!"

"It was even more exciting when I was clinging on to the back of a giant man trying to strangle my friend."

"It sounds like it. You know, I bet your breakfast's about ready. I'll go check."

As she hurried back to the kitchen, he again stared at his laptop screen. Those had been an exciting few days. The Lost Vermeer… Good old Miss Wenceslas.

"_I met a little old man in Argentina," _she had said. _"Brushwork, immaculate. Could fool anyone. Well, almost anyone… I heard whispers, but there was never any real contact… Eventually, I was put in contact…"_

"_I was put in contact…"_

How? Was there a section of Moriarty's people in Argentina? It was a pretty big country to find a small group in.

Maybe he'd have to have a chat with Miss Wenceslas.

An email alert popped up on John's laptop screen. Mycroft had written him back.

_John:_

_You won't get anywhere on that line of inquiry. Try Brook's agent._

_Mycroft_

Yeah, Mycroft was a huge help, masterfully restating conclusions John had already come to.

The scent of bacon wafted under John's nose, heralding Mary's return from the kitchen. "That smells delicious," he told her. He'd have that chat later. Right now, the eggs and bacon were most important.

"It should be! Pamela's the best cook I know, and I'm including myself in that evaluation."

Mary walked back to the counter, wiping its already clean surface with a wet rag.

"So," John asked, digging into his eggs, "how long have you been working here?"

"Oh, just since last January."

"Do you… like working here?"

"It's… fine, I guess," she said, tossing the rag up in the air and easily catching it. "Gets a bit boring sometimes, if I'm being completely honest. My coworkers are absolutely lovely, though."

They sat for a moment in silence. Finally, John asked, "If you could do anything, anything at all, except for working here, what would you do?"

Sighing deeply, she crossed her arms. "Anything but this."

"Well, if it's any comfort, I think you do _this_," he gestured at the restaurant, "very well."

The split-second smile lit up her face. "Thanks. It's not the restaurant I really hate, it's… just that-" The beginning notes of _Smooth Criminal _cut through the quiet restaurant. "I'm so sorry; that's my phone." Taking it out of her pocket, Mary's eyes widened, her face draining of color. "I have to take this; I'll be back in a minute."

"Not a problem." But she didn't hear, because she had already rushed to the back room.

JWJWJW

"_Mary?"_

"Speaking."

"_Have you established contact yet?"_

She took a deep breath. "No, I haven't."

"_And why not?"_

"He hasn't come in yet. He's… still grieving. I don't blame him. I wouldn't show my face outside for _months_ if my best friend had died like that. And it's not like I can just go up to his front door to bring flowers or something. That would be suspicious even to _him._"

"_Not if you somehow convinced him that you were a fellow believer in… hmm… who was that, again? Oh, yeah, maybe _Sherlock Holmes. _Honestly, _think, _Mary! We'll send you a bouquet of flowers to deliver tomorrow. I expect you to establish contact with him by tomorrow evening at 19:00. Talk to you soon."_

She hung up, letting her arm fall. Leaning against the wall, she slowly sank down until she was sitting on the floor, mirroring her sinking heart.

What had she done? What had she gotten herself into?


End file.
